


The Interrogation

by folkful



Series: Joar and Viraven being Nasty [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Breaking and Entering, Dacryphilia, Fantastic Racism, Hurt No Comfort, Including But Not Limited To - Freeform, M/M, Men Crying, Power Imbalance, Property Damage, Stormcloaks (Elder Scrolls), anal rape, assault probably, i took one of rolff's most worrying lines and ran, improper use of healing potion, in a fucked up kind of way, many crimes are committed, no beta we die like men, poor manners, rolff doesn't participate in the rape, sexual awakening, so much of it, sorry revyn you don't deserve this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:48:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28088769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/folkful/pseuds/folkful
Summary: Carrying through with one of Rolff Stone-Fist's drunken plans, the Dragonborn discovers a thing or two about himself.
Relationships: Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Revyn Sadri
Series: Joar and Viraven being Nasty [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2057886
Comments: 23
Kudos: 21





	The Interrogation

**Author's Note:**

> If for some reason you missed the tags, go back and un-miss them, please. I mean them. This is fucked up on many levels. And in case the tags didn't make this part clear enough: the racism element plays a heavy role. 
> 
> I'm lucky my friends don't know anything about my ES characters lol  
> Now I kind of want to write something softer between Revyn and my Bosmer character who married him. Is this because I feel bad? Absolutely.
> 
> Disclaimer: I am under no pretense that this is good, or even passable, content. But I wrote it, so I might as well just post it. I'm very new to writing porn. This is the first time I've actually finished any. Let me live.  
> Disclaimer #2: I am not okay with any of this irl. I hope people don't think I am. This guy is 95% a character I use to vent fucked up thoughts I don't actually agree with. The other 5% is there because I like to draw his hair.

It hadn't meant much, not at first.

It had started, as so many things in Windhelm did, with a group of drunk Nords at Candlehearth Hall, ranting about something or other. They sat circled around the fireplace, Joar among those warming their hands over it, speaking with old acquaintances and fellow Stormcloaks. As was inevitable when true Nords and mead were in the same vicinity, Rolff Stone-Fist was among the small crowd. And as was inevitable when Rolff Stone-Fist and mead were in the same vicinity, he was talking about the Dark Elves, his voice slurring on every other word.

"Those Thalmor are elves, too. Bet they're working together. Maybe I should round up some men, take us a few prisoners to interrogate."

"Why don't you just do it, then?", asked a man Joar had only briefly spoken to. "Instead of yapping about it every chance you get."

It didn't end in anything that particular night, but it was as if the idea became solid when someone acknowledged it. At the very least, the words stuck around, circled Joar's mind like particularly tenacious gnats. _Why don't you just do it, then?_ After all, he was a Thane, and he was Ulfric's friend, and Rolff was Galmar's brother, and the soldiers were...well, they were soldiers. Was it not within their right to weed out those who sought to work against their Jarl?

The real plan (in whatever sense one could call it a plan) only began developing nearly a month later. It happened in the spur of the moment. They'd been drinking on the upper floor of Candlehearth Hall (again), Rolff had brought up the idea (again), but something in the air had been different. Determination, or boredom, or both. There had been a moment of contemplation, a calm silence, and then Joar had matter-of-factly stated they ought to do it. They were all a little too full of mead. Most of them were content to stay and become even fuller. But in the end, a small group had formed.

There were four of them. Joar, Rolff (who had made sure to bring an extra bottle of mead with him), a guard who Joar did not recognise, and Sylva, a woman he'd consider a friend. They'd served the Stormcloaks together.As they made their way toward the alley that marked the entrance to the Gray Quarter, they were wrapped up in conversation. The first and most obvious possible target was Rendar. But they were all somewhere between slightly disoriented and too drunk to walk straight, the barkeep was feisty, and there was the issue of his assistant. Instead, they decided the best target was the mer who owned the pawn shop, Revyn Sadri. Joar had been the one to propose this idea, too, to murmured agreements. Sadri was less of a troublemaker, but Joar had seen all manner of strange folk come in and out of his store.

Truthfully, he did not think any of them were too bothered with the _who_ , as much as the _what_. They were simply tired of inaction, and the mead had lowered their inhibitions enough to do something about it.

Joar found himself strangely on edge, somewhere between the excitement of a risky dare, and the tension, the twisted sense of camaraderie, that had come with the real interrogations. He wondered if they felt it, too.  
Breaking the lock gave him some trouble - doing it while drunk turned out to be more difficult than it had any right to be - and he broke nine lockpicks in it before finally, it made a distinct click. He puffed out a triumphant breath, throwing the last pick in an arc down the street. The guardsman took a swig of his Black-Briar mead, Rolff whistled once, and Joar quietly swung open the door.

The shop was dark, and the bitter Windhelm cold had seeped in through the cracks in the walls. The floorboards creaked under Joar's feet as he made his way further in, toward Sadri's living quarters.

The elf was on his front on a rickety bed, so deep in sleep he was unaffected by the noise and the chilly wind coming in through the half-open door. A thin blanket covered the lower half of his body, and he wore a simple, worn tunic. Behind him, he heard Sylva tell one of the others to watch the door. Treading as lightly as he could, as to not rouse him too soon - he wanted this to be frightening from the start - he crouched by the sleeping merchant, taking a sudden and harsh grip on his wild hair, pulling his head back. Ignoring the startled noise the elf made as he was ripped from unconsciousness, and the way his hands scrambled to free himself, Joar grinned.

"Rise and shine, gray-skin."

"Wha-"

"Get up." Joar tugged on his hair, hard. Sadri winced, putting his hands up in front of his chest, struggling to find the balance to follow the command.

"Who are you? I...I don't want any trouble."

There was another creak of the floor, Sadri's eyes flickered between him and the doorway, and colour drained from his face. Joar looked back, seeing Rolff Stone-Fist wearing a savage expression, clearly tripped up with power. Joar knew nearly all of Windhelm looked down on the man, powerful brother or no. Fellow Nords found him irritating, and the Dark Elves hated him about as much as he hated them. Real power was not something he had much of.

"Get 'im in here," Rolff said, voice impatient.

"Give me a moment."

"What are you going to do?", asked Sadri, breathing rapidly. Neither Nord responded to that question, but Joar gave him a pointed look before dragging him toward the main shop.

You had better not try anything," he growled. "And don't yell for guards. We have one stationed outside the door."

Rolff stayed close to the door, Sylva was gathering the few weapons on the shop shelves, and in the middle of the room, Joar pushed Sadri onto his knees on the floor, both hands pushing on his shoulders. Before anyone else did or said anything, Rolff wrenched the elf's head up, let out a wretched, wet sound, and spat on his cheek. Sadri, still a bit disoriented, attempted to turn his head down, wiping the aftermath on his thin tunic. His face was set in obvious confusion and poorly-hidden fear.

Sylva called out Joar's name, and tossed him a length of sleek rope she'd found on one of the shelves.

"Tie down his hands." Her voice was indifferent, and it was a ritual they'd gone through before, during their days in the army. He realised that Sylva, too, was treating this like a real interrogation. None of them were in their right minds now, drunk and riding the high of feeling like part of something important. Even if their target was only a scrawny merchant, their cell a broken-down general store, and their tools improvised, he couldn't find it in himself to care. So, with practiced, none too gentle movements, he tied Sadri's hands in front of him.

"What do you - what do you want? Please, just tell me what you want, I...I don't have much, barely any money, I…"

He trailed off, clearly panicking, and Joar picked up.

"We're not looking for money. We're here for information."

"On-on what?"

"The Thalmor," slurred Rolff. "The witch-elves."

"I don't know anything, I swear I don't."

Sylva picked a simple dagger from her gathered pile of items. Even the gesture was enough. Sadri's body was frozen, his nervousness palpable, and Joar could feel him shaking slightly under his hands. The muscles of his stomach pulled taut at the sight of it all.

Afterward, Joar wouldn't remember much of the questioning itself. They did not wind up using the knife, but the threat of it sufficed. Rolff was all too happy to push the elf around, slap him, yell. Sylva carried herself meticulously, clearly having missed this, ignoring Sadri's stuttered, unclear answers.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, even in the heat of the moment, he knew the chances of Sadri being a Thalmor spy were nearly nonexistent. But by now, the interrogation had become something else entirely. It was one part questioning, nine parts catharsis. Sadri was only a target for their anger, the message they wanted to send to the elves. But for him, there was something more to it. He'd enjoyed it with the enemy, too, but this, this was something else. The elf was entirely at their mercy, unexpecting, not a warrior, or a mage, or even fully aware of what was happening. It was exhilarating. Wrong, and probably worrying, but exhilarating.

The questions stopped coming.

Under his layers of clothing, Joar was fully hard.

He stayed, still restraining Sadri, keeping him still, his back against Joar's front. Sylva and Rolff busied themselves wrecking the elf's sad excuse for a pawn shop. He wasn't sure which of them had begun tearing things off the shelves, but they were both doing it now, despite Sadri's futile protests. He had begun sounding resigned, and somehow it infuriated Joar. He wanted the elf on his toes. He wanted to properly show him his people's place in Windhelm. Heat coiled in his gut, not entirely welcome.

Letting his wants take over for once, though, he let his free hand wander, settling on the back of Sadri's thigh, squeezing lightly. He had to admit, for a gray-skin, the merchant was pretty, if a bit thin. He supposed living like he did would have that unfortunate effect.

"I should take you over that counter.", he murmured, softly enough that only the two of them could hear. "Fuck you senseless. By Talos, I might."

That definitely had the effect he was looking for. Sadri went rigid for a moment, and then, panic appeared to take over. His struggles returned, all frantic and desperate. Joar grappled with his thin frame, knowing he had the upper hand but liking the game too much to end it immediately. One of Sadri's sharp elbows collided with Joar's gut, making him groan in pain and nearly double over, slightly winded. Rage flared up behind his eyes, blending with his arousal. It was a mix he had always enjoyed, the blurring of the lines, pleasure and anger.

The elf tried to duck under his arm, tried to go for the door, but Joar grabbed hold on the back of his tunic, pulling him back and pulling the fabric taut over his throat, forcing him to stumble backwards, letting out a wheezing, cut-off breath. Joar grabbed a fistful of dark hair again, his other arm catching around the elf's neck, moving so that Sadri's back was pressed against his torso, making sure he could feel his building arousal against the small of his back. He maneuvered him back behind the counter, against his weakened protests and hold on the forearm held over his neck, trying to make it easier to breathe. He stopped there, using the weight of his own, larger body to bend the wiry elf over the wooden surface.

Apparently not finished fighting back, Sadri tried to kick at the Nord, barely aiming. Joar pushed him down with a hand on his upper back, his other hand rearing back and then crashing into the back of the mer's head. Sadri yelped, and there was a thud as his forehead hit the wood hard. He delivered another smack to his clothed arse.

"That was a stupid move, boy," he heard Sylva say from beside the doorway.

From a corner of the store, Rolff rummaged through a few of the storage room boxes, drunk enough to be swaying. He paid them very little attention now, the novelty of the moment apparently gone, more interested in whatever cheap garbage he could find among the Dark Elf's stock.

Joar turned his eyes on his army friend instead, his pale eyes blazing anew.

"Hold him down."

Sylva nodded once, hands clamping down over Sadri’s wrists, pushing them down into the counter.

"No - n-no, stop-"

Joar reached forward, putting a hand over the elf's mouth to silence him, feeling his hot breath against his palm.

"Quiet down or I'll shut you up."

He nodded slowly, but as soon as Joar withdrew, he began whispering pleas that bordered on incoherent. It only spurred on Joar's excitement, so he allowed him to keep at it. It wouldn't wake anyone, not when Joar himself could barely make out the words.

He had no oil, but he'd need something to ease the fuck. Sadri was a skinny thing, and he'd bet his hole was too tight to take dry without hurting himself. He thought to spit, at first, and then a more interesting idea crossed his mind. He turned back to what remained on the store shelves, feeling Sadri's eyes on him. He stood there for a moment, dragging it out, listening to the elf's stressed breaths, wanting to leave him uncertain.

He went over the bottles that were not currently smashed to pieces, contents dripping slowly into the crevices of the floor. He wasn't sure whether a potion would still have effect if used for this purpose - alchemy was never his strong suit - but he wasn't about to take the risk. Invisibility (impractical), stamina damage (counterproductive), frenzy (definitely not), minor healing. That could work. He took it off the shelf, setting it on the counter beside Sadri's restrained body, and then tugged down the elf's trousers. He began squirming again, begging in fragmented sentences. Sylva back-handed him, once, twice, and then took a tighter hold on his arms. He shook, sniffling once, but bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from speaking. Joar had nearly forgotten how ruthless his old friend could be. His insides buzzed.

He uncorked the bottle, unceremoniously pouring a hefty amount of the solution between the merchant's buttocks. It was a little too watery, not as good as oil or fat, but it would do. The elf shivered - the liquid must be cold - and shot Joar a wildly mortified look. There was blood on his lip after Sylva's hard strikes. He seemed to be at a loss, rapidly running out of options. Joar maneuvered his trembling legs, spreading them apart as wide as they would go with his trousers still half-on. His right index finger rubbed circles around the rim of his tiny entrance, his left hand keeping a steady hold on his ass-cheek, moving it aside for better access - or rather, better view. Then, all gentleness of the touch lost, he jabbed his first finger in. Sadri choked on nothing, coughed, and then let out a long, miserable whine as the Nord's large finger began moving inside of him.

At the renewed noise, the guard outside the door poked his head in, face scrunching up in a mocking display of revulsion.

“Oh, that’s disgusting, Dragonborn. He’s probably disease-ridden.”

Rolff barked a chuckle from the other side of the room, and he could see Sadri wince, neck turning red. Perhaps he thought the man would have put a stop to it. Whatever he'd thought, their sympathies were not wasted on gutter trash like him. No, Joar could do as he liked, and it would be remembered only as a strange, drunken stunt. There would be no thought of the elf, of what happened to him, only of the inebriated Dragonborn taking what he wanted. And that was why he chose to do it.

Though the Dark Elves were a wretched kind, rarely did Joar feel as powerful as when he stepped into their slum. Because he was Thane, Stormblade, Dragonborn, and they…they were nothing, in the eyes of the city. Invisible.

Joar smacked the side of the elf's thigh, accompanying it with a growled order to stop clenching, and then shoved another finger inside his tight asshole. The noise he made, and then kept making, could hardly be described as sane. To his satisfaction, he heard Sadri's breath hitch, and sobs beginning to force their way from his throat. He was already wrecked, and Joar was only halfway through preparing him. He twisted his fingers.

"P - ah! - please," Sadri choked. "Don't, I...please, you can't-"

Joar pumped the digits in and out roughly, provoking little gasps and cries in between the sobbing. When his third finger began prodding at the already-stretched hole, Sadri wailed, low and despairing. It breached, its passage slow this time. The elf strained to contain a scream, hands clenching and unclenching within their restraints. Joar, somehow, felt both caught in the moment, and detached. He wasn't a stranger to this feeling, the duality of it, but here, it seemed ten times stronger on both ends. He was painfully aroused. But the body bent over the counter did not feel like a real person. A body only, a means to an end.

He used his three fingers to stretch the elf, but soon told himself he was finished waiting.

At some point, Stone-Fist had left. He hadn't even noticed it, too caught up in the scene right in front of him to care about the rest. Now, there was only the Dragonborn, the merchant, Sylva, and the cold.

Flames licked along his nerve endings, pulse pounding in his ears as he unlaced the front of his own trousers and took out his cock. Not bothering with any more proper preparation, he rubbed the head in one of the rivulets of translucent liquid running down Sadri's thigh, and lined up with his reddened, winking hole. His hands held the elf's cheeks apart.

The first attempt to enter him failed, only because Sadri, in renewed panic, closed his legs. Frustrated, Joar laid down three sharp smacks to his posterior, the sound echoing off the walls. Then, he forced the long, thin legs to spread again, any previous notion of mercy all but gone from his mind, and he pressed into him in one long motion. The gray-skin was pleading again, sounding about to work himself up into hysterics, almost unable to hold back another scream. Joar groaned as his hips met smooth skin.

He set a relentless, bruising pace from the start, the mead still having a slight effect on him. He did not want to control himself, and he did not care to attempt making this easy on Sadri, or to find the right spots. He'd wanted...he'd wanted this, something like this, for longer than he'd previously realised, and now that he had it, he would revel in it. He had to remind himself Sylva was still there. If she cared, she would have already left, but it was a matter of keeping dignity. A drunken stunt was one thing, truly enjoying the feel of a Dark Elf slum-dweller on his cock was another. So he stayed quiet apart from small grunts and heavy breaths, in spite of everything he wanted to say. Tried to look detached, like all he wanted was to add another layer of pain to the not-quite-interrogation (he did want that, too, but it was not his main reason). Didn't touch him the way his mind screamed at him to, only held his hips, nails digging purple little half-moon crevices into the flesh of them.

But listening was not so bad either. With every few claps of skin against skin, Sadri gave a low cry. He was still sobbing, and every now and then Joar would thrust particularly hard, or hit someplace sensitive, making the elf clench and gasp. He practically drank up the pained little reactions. All the fight appeared to have drained from the mer, though once or twice, he was unable to keep his legs apart, knees knocking together audibly before he regained some semblance of control over himself and tried to spread them to avoid the Nord's ire. Truthfully, Joar was beyond caring what the elf did, now that he was getting what he wanted. But he loved the fear, the way he tried so hard to obey.

He had to slow down for a minute, not wanting this to end too quickly. His body was burning up from the inside in spite of the icy night, more than what any fireplace could do. He studied the cracks in the old counter, the dents, the discolourations, calming himself enough that he wouldn't spill early.

Taking a few deep breaths, he continued, speeding up his movements, drawing out a startled whine from Sadri and a groan from himself. The elf tried again to pull away, but he had no strength, and it seemed more like a reflex than defiance. Besides, all it meant was that when his body slackened again, he moved involuntarily backwards, essentially impaling himself on Joar's cock. He mewled, clearly both in pain and humiliated. The mix of sensation and sound was lovely. Had they been alone, Joar would have told him to do it again. Instead, his eyes roamed over the merchant's body, the building bruises from his and Rolff's rough handling, the slight redness on his thigh and ass from where Joar had smacked him.

It was as if Joar's sense of touch had doubled, tripled, increased a hundred-fold. He dug his nails harder into the elf's hips, feeling skin break in a few places, feeling Sadri's whole body wince.

Somehow, he managed to speed up even more, then sheathed himself fully inside the elf's tight, hot ass. White-hot pleasure washed over him, and he came, long and near-agonisingly sharp. His cock pulsed as he gave his seed to the merchant in thick streams. An unwelcome gift, he mused. He doubled over, forehead leaning against Sadri's shoulder. He stayed like that for a bit, rolling his hips lazily, riding out the high as he felt Sadri shake underneath him, pressing his sweaty chest against his back. His long, black hair laid against the warm gray of the other's skin, coiling like snakes. They suited each other, he thought. After the fact, he'd blame that thought on the mead, even if he'd not been nearly as drunk as the others.

Joar's hands and feet were buzzing, body feeling both heavier and lighter than it should. He was vaguely aware of Sylva releasing her hold and stepping back, now that it was over with. Sadri did not move, seeming to have tired himself out. He sniffled occasionally, but the sound was dry now. Joar basked in the moment for a while, then stood up, slowly pulling out, watching his come mix with the remnants of the potion sticking to the elf's inner thighs. Sadri whined at the sensation, pressing his face into the wood to hide his expression. Joar's cock was so sensitive it almost felt numb as he tucked it back in his pants, lacing them back up carefully.

He walked around the counter, swiped the iron dagger Sylva had used as incentive earlier off the side of the counter. He tipped Sadri's head up by the chin, uncharacteristically gently, watching a fresh wave of tears make a trail down his blotchy face. Other than that, he did not move or react, not until Joar moved the blade, letting it rest touching the skin of his bared throat. His lips trembled, eyes widening, meeting the Nord's with a look of silent horror.

"You don't know who broke in." Joar's voice was steady. "We never touched you. Yes?"

"Y-yes."

"Good."

He let the blade fall away from Sadri's soft neck, instead busying himself cutting through the rope holding the elf's wrists together. The skin underneath was swollen and bruised, chafed raw from desperate struggling. In some places, the rope was stained red. Perhaps he hadn't needed to tie it so tightly. But he found the marks were alluring to him. They looked like ink blooms.

The last step, for now, was over, and it was as though by removing the restraints, Joar had removed whatever was holding Revyn Sadri together. The elf's arms came up over his head, face crumbling, and his upper body slid off the counter as he broke down, began to cry in earnest. It was as if he were buckling under the weight of what had just been done to him, coming apart at the seams on the floor of his own shop. Joar watched him for a moment, enjoying it more than even he had expected, hoping the image would stick in his memory.

He had another idea.

Sylva was waiting for him in the doorway, but his eyes trailed over the room.

Sadri's keys weren't hard to find, and there was no way the elf could afford a new lock, especially after all the wares they'd destroyed or stolen tonight. He pocketed them before he and Sylva made their way out of the Gray Quarter in the dark, leaving the door slightly ajar, talking quietly between themselves. It was as if nothing had happened, and yet, it felt as though everything was different.

Next time - because there would be one, undoubtedly, whether with Sadri or someone other - he would come here alone. Enjoy himself fully. But for now, he was satisfied.


End file.
